


Somebody to....

by nocturneequuis



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, because everything begins and ends with Queen, but maybe some things have to, everything is beautiful and well some things hurt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-06
Updated: 2019-06-06
Packaged: 2020-04-11 11:05:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19108378
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis
Summary: Crowley has a plan. It's a bit of a mad plan and he's not entirely sure if he wants to go through with it. But if it goes well? The resulting trouble might well be worth it.





	Somebody to....

Crowley is not really one that is into pain. Some demons are, he knows. In fact, most are into giving it, fewer are into taking it though they do exist. And while Crowley has done his fair share of pain giving over the course of millennia, it’s always been less about enjoyment and more about job description. And as for receiving it? Hell no. It was why he’d spent countless hours filling out paperwork in order to avoid it; and he _hated_ paperwork. But it was well worth it to avoid torture, casual or otherwise.

And yet he still hasn’t quite explained to himself why he’s sitting in the Bentley in SoHo, the contented angel beside him and listening to the staccato chatter of rain on the roof with dangerous thoughts whirring in his head. Even more dangerous and strange to himself is that the plan has already been set into motion. Not so much that he can’t stop it or ignore it, but the fact that he’s pushed it even this far worries him. 

“Well, that was quite good,” says Aziraphale, patting his stomach, the harsh light from the porn shop next door giving his hair a reddish glow. Crowley found he didn’t like it. 

“When you took me to that hole in the wall place, I thought it was a punchline to a terrible joke,” the angel continues. “But that curry was _divine_.” 

“Yeah, well you ate enough of it,” Crowley says, raising his head a little as someone comes to the nearby street corner. But is just a man with a mustache like a caterpillar, hurrying to either get out of the rain or away from sin. Crowley sits back, annoyed at him just for existing and getting his hopes up. Maybe this plan won’t work after all, he thinks, both annoyed and relieved. How much longer was he going to have to wait.

“I’d say six months,” says Aziraphale, scaring more hell into him. Had the angel gone psychic all of a sudden?

“What?” he says, as casually as he can manage. 

“Our waitress. Six months along, wouldn’t you say? Poor dear.” 

"How should I know?” Though, in fact, he did. Six and a half months, single mother and desperately behind on the rent. Not that Crowley had stalked her or anything. These were just the sort of things you picked up. “Nice of you to poor dear her after you nearly ran her off her feet.” 

“Oh, be quiet,” Aziraphale says, giving him a very gentle slap on the sleeve with fingers so light even a butterfly wouldn’t feel it. “I gave her a very sizable tip.”  
 

And had annoyed the bloody hell out of her in the process, Crowley thinks. He’d felt her soul gain at least three layers of tarnish as she contemplated doing unspeakable things to him, no doubt. But she’d been happy to get the tip and relieved and probably had forgiven Aziraphale for his shortcomings, which put her back to her regular tarnish level. Everyone had gotten something out of it. 

There is silence then. He expects the angel to leave the car. Hopes he does. Hopes he doesn’t. He drums his fingers against the wheel impatiently, knowing Aziraphale is going to catch on sooner or later, and then he’ll have to have some kind of excuse or obfuscation at the ready. He has neither but rising irritation about those two not being where they said they would be. 

“So, what will you do with the rest of your night?” Aziraphale says in a voice of pleasant inquiry; but as always there was the sense that he meant it more than that. As if he was genuinely curious. And that was the problem with good. It made him think things he shouldn’t be thinking if he wanted to continue his pain free lifestyle. Temptation works both ways, he thinks. Even if the other side doesn’t like to admit it.

“Oh, I dunno,” he says to the question. “Heard there was an orgy nearby.” And he gives the angel a leer he doesn’t really mean, surprisingly enough. “Want to come?” 

“No, thank you,” Aziraphale says as if he doesn’t get the leer or the pun. “That sort of thing is wearing enough with one person.”

“ _What_?” Now it’s his turn to be shocked, right down to the core. “Angel, have you-?”

“Well, thank you for the dinner,” Aziraphale says quickly, getting out of the car. “We’ll catch up later.”      

“Oh no you don’t.” Crowley gets out too, heedless of the traffic and getting a twist of pleasure at the screech of swerving tires and the crunch of metal. The air is filled with the sound of cursing and he figures it a job well done as most of the men here couldn’t even tell their wives where they’d been, let alone the police.

He puts that aside for now as he darts around Aziraphale and blocks the door of his shop, arms folded, one leg crossed over the other, smirking as absolute glee fills him.

“ _Really_ , Crowley! Stop giving me that look! It’s not what you think!”

“Then what is it? Come on. You have to tell me.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything,” Aziraphale says, lifting his nose. “And certainly won’t give in to peer pressure.”

“Then how about guilt?” Crowley says, smirk widening at the sudden panicked look on the angel’s face.

“Don’t you dare.”

“I mean,” he shrugs. “I _could_ have been starting a small land war in Asia. But instead I spent the time tracking down a restaurant that I thought you’d like.”

“You’re lying!” says Aziraphale, looking alarmingly interesting standing mildly furious in the rain. Crowley keeps on grinning; trying to stave off the wave of strange, irritating curiosity.

“Not when the truth is this good.”

“Oh, very well,” Aziraphale says, looking put out. “But will you at least let me get out of the rain?  It is _ruining_ this jacket.”

“Nope,” says Crowley, snapping his fingers so the rain goes around him.

“I suppose I should thank you for that,” Aziraphale says. “But given this is extortion, I won’t.”

Crowley laughs. He can’t help it.

“You wouldn’t know extortion if it hit you between the eyes.”

“I’ve known you long enough,” Aziraphale says with a quick bright grin and Crowley has to tell his body to stop producing certain strange feelings before they _really_ get in trouble. Fortunately, or unfortunately, the grin soon disappears and the angel looks worried again.

“I’ll tell you, but you’re never to bring it up again. Do you promise?”

He would, and often.  But he just grins and says: “Go on.” Which is not technically a promise, but the best part about breaking your word was never having given it to begin with. The angel huffs again, folding his arms.

“Well, it was in Greece, just before the thirteenth Olympics… And they had the most excellent Kolokythoanthoi vendor there! I’ve not tasted zucchini flowers that fresh since! It’s all processed these days, sadly.”

“You’re stalling,” Crowley says, back to being amused. Aziraphale blinks at him as if astonished.

“I am not!”

“You _are_ ,” Crowley says, fairly growling in pleasure at this. He can smell the lie in the air. It’s only a half lie, he knows, but from an angel it’s delicious. Almost makes his stomach rumble and he has to shift his stance to shake the tingles from his spine.

“Perhaps, a little,” says Aziraphale, looking flustered now. “But you know it’s the sort of thing they frown on.” He glances upward. “So I can’t go into too much detail… But there was this young man… A marathon runner… About six feet tall, brown eyed, quite fit…”

“You’re talking about him like he’s Kolokythoanthoi,” Crowley says to tease him and not at all annoyed by the angel’s soft expression or the light in his eyes. What reason would have to be jealous? Absolutely none. But he does stand a little straighter, as he’s not much more than six feet perhaps but still taller. Not that it matters.

“I’m just describing him! You want to know, don’t you?” says Aziraphale, flushing lightly. “He was facing a race that would bring a great deal of wealth to his starving little village, but was recovering from a long injury. And, of course I did my best to provide him succor—”

“I bet you did,” Crowley says, not able to resist, especially as it made the angel’s flush deepen.

“Do stop leering at me like that. It’s not a joke. It was quite sweet really.”

Crowley can imagine the sweetness of it though tries hard not to. He can’t help but wonder what it was like for Kolokythoanthoi-man. What he heard. What he saw. What he _felt_. Though he didn’t have a libido as it were, he sure as hell understood them. And what he did have was a burning curiosity coupled with temptation, which was always a double-edged sword.

“He told me that if I could bestow upon him my favor, not even Hermes could catch him.” The angel sighed gustily sending another swirl of mixed emotions through Crowley and as much as he was enjoying this, he almost regretted asking.

“So… well…”

Crowley can’t help but lean forward. If he breathed, he’d be holding his breath by now. As it is, he is standing on the razor edge of a moment, wondering just how much Aziraphale would tell him.

“We …we kissed.” He said the last word in a low tone after a hurried look upward. Crowley stared at him waiting for more, but Aziraphale was giving him an embarrassed look tinged with the faint scent of shame.

The rain pattered around them a moment and then Crowley caught on.

“You kissed?” He couldn’t believe this. “That’s _it_?”

“Isn’t it enough?” says Aziraphale, seeming flustered. “Not only was it a human he was a thousand years or so younger than me!”

“Oh, please,” Crowley said. “That won’t even get you a ticket to purgatory.” Not that he was sure it existed. Paperwork would be even more of a nightmare for a start.

“I am an angel, you know,” says Aziraphale. “We have higher standards.”

“Not you apparently,” says Crowley dryly, which he realizes in the next moment was a bridge too far as the angel’s expression closes.

“Well I’ve told you, now get out of the way and let me in.”

“Not on your life,” Crowley says, leaning against the door in a sort of panic. Bugger, bugger, bugger! He doesn’t want to apologize. That would open a door too complicated to deal with right now. But he doesn’t want to end the night on this note. Aziraphale tries to reach around him to get at the doorknob but Crowley puts his hand over it, knowing Aziraphale won’t have the heart to push it aside.

“Crowley!”

“Come on,” he said, searching the rainy street beyond Aziraphale’s shoulder for any sign of those men. “It had to have been more than just a kiss.”

“Why are you so curious about it anyway?” Aziraphale falls back a little, looking concerned. “You _know_ the wages of sin for me.”

“Yeah, paperwork.” He doesn’t know how much longer _he_ can stall. And then they appear, standing on the street corner as he’d told them, looking nervous

“Please… This isn’t like you,” says Aziraphale and Crowley knows it’s now or never... Does he let Aziraphale in? Or enact his plan? Making a snap decision he knows he’s going to regret, he jerks his head in their direction.

“Least you’re better than those poor bastards,” he says. Aziraphale looks confused and half turns, spotting them instantly. Crowley can’t help but watch the shift in his stance, the slight bracing of the legs, his hands folded in front of him, head cocked slightly to the side. It was his ‘getting prepared to help’ pose. Though clearly he didn’t know what was wrong.

“Do you know them?”

“Me? ‘Course not.” Which is a lie, of course. Well a half lie. He doesn’t know them well. Just that they have a dark secret for this time of place, one that cut them off from their families and more importantly, their income. And the need for money overrode the need to keep the secret completely secret. Amazing thing, money. It was temptation the cheap and easy way. Even if the reasons for needing it sometimes were only for the barest survival. For them, they needed it for being themselves in a world that thought that heaven gave a damn about who they chose to love.

 Well it didn’t give a damn about how _humans_ love anyway.

“If you don’t know them,” Aziraphale says. “Then why…?”

“I know their type,” Crowley continues. “Feel them, Angel.”

“Hm.” A wrinkle forms between Aziraphale’s brows, which quickly smooths away, and the glow is back around him, in his face, in his eyes. It’s beautiful and he shoves his hands in his pockets, glad for the porn shops which cover so many ranges of desire and lust that another one will hardly be noticed.

“They love each other very much,” the angel says, putting a hand over his heart. “How sweet.”

“Yeah, sweet,” Crowley says, having to clear his throat a little. “Not that they’ll ever act on it. Too scared.”

“How sad,” says the angel in the tone which means he’s at the point to be easily swayed. Now all Crowley has to do is—

“I’ll go talk to them.”

“Wait a minute!” Crowley grabs the crook of Aziraphale’s arm just in the nick of time, pulling him back; thinking fast. “You can’t just ‘bring you tidings of great joy’ them into a relationship.”

“I can try!” Aziraphale looks affronted. “What could it hurt?”

“Hey, if you want to look completely mad and make them second guess themselves, go ahead,” Crowley says, raising his hands. “Fine by me. Another commendation for my books.”

Aziraphale frowns.

“What do you suggest then?”

“Hell, if I know,” Crowley says, hands in his pockets once more, trying to figure out a way to frame this that wasn’t suspicious. “You’re the miracle worker. But if it were me… I’d try to lead them into a temptation by, I dunno…” he shrugs. Sniffs. “A demonstration.”

“Demonstration?” Aziraphale echoes. Then gives him a cool look that makes Crowley squirm a little even if he doesn’t show it. “And what are you getting out of it.”

“Same thing as usual.” He shrugs, glad that so much practice at deception makes him sound blasé about the whole thing. “You get to inspire them to be brave enough to show their…” he makes a face, not trusting himself to say it.

“Love?” Aziraphale says archly and Crowley nods.

“And I get to tempt them into fornication. Happy end for everyone.”

Aziraphale seems to think about this.

“But how do we demonstrate?”

Crowley wants to strangle him. He’d spent sixth months on this ridiculously convoluted plan, risking a lot for a reward that will only last a fraction of a moment, and the angel chooses this time to be obtuse.

“Just pretend you’re back in Greece.”

“Back in…?” Aziraphale leans back, shocked. “Oh! No… I couldn’t!”

That doesn’t hurt, because why would it hurt? He doesn’t care. Crowley shrugs and moves around him back toward the Bentley.

“Then let’s not. See you around, Angel.” Possibly never. A light touch on his arm stops him and he half turns.

“No. No it’s not because of that… It’s…you know… because of...” Aziraphale gestures vaguely, face full of concern that he’s both touched by and afraid of. Why did he think this was a good idea? No, he knew it was a bad idea when he started and yet did it anyway. He should stop it. He should just go on his way. He should not be so stupid about the whole sodding thing.

And yet…

“It’s just a kiss,” he hears himself saying. “Not the end of the world.”

Aziraphale frets for a bit longer and Crowley wonders if he would get in trouble for slipping a few more pounds under their door for standing outside in the bleeding rain for so long. Finally, Aziraphale nods, pulling his shoulders back and raising his head. It’s his ‘about to charge into righteousness’ pose. Crowley suddenly wonders if this kiss will be worth it.

“Very well, but you must close your eyes.”

“Sure,” Crowley says with a smirk, deciding to open them in the middle of it.

“I’m serious,” Aziraphale says, giving him a look. “We must display proper passion.”

“Your version of proper passion usually involves a Table of Contents at the start.”

“Oh, hush up and close your eyes.”

Crowley obeys, for now anyway, and then feels like a great awkward fool standing in the rain in the dark. What the hell is he doing? Why did he go to all this length for one sodding kiss?

…Oh.

It’s sudden and soft and smells a little like curry. And then it _burns_. Like white hot fire is burning through his insides. It’s like walking into a church or being a bloody great fool and kissing a cross only amped up a thousand times and he’s not altogether sure his hair won’t catch fire. – And it’s somehow absobloodylutely wonderful. If he is completely obliterated one day, this is how he wants to go. He presses in just a little, hearing a noise a bit like a startled rabbit from the angel. Then, because he has to, dips out his tongue to taste Aziraphale’s lower lip, even though he won’t be able to taste properly for weeks as that same stinging fire filling his mouth so even his teeth ache a little.

“Mmph!” A hand on his chest and he’s pushed back, but not hard. There is only a distance a width of a hair between their mouths and he can feel the fiery brush of Aziraphale’s lips as he speaks. “Let’s…not go overboard,” he says, voice breathy.

“This is a demonstration of passion, Angel,” he says in a low voice. “There is no overboard.”

And he moves in again before another word of protest can be spoken. To his surprise, Aziraphale moves in as well, meeting him mid-way, lips parting under his, tongue like cold fire. His hand rests firm on the small of Crowley’s back as if pulling him in and he tickles the fine hairs at the back of Aziraphale’s neck to feel his fingers burn too. Every part of him is alight. This is the most dangerous thing he’s ever done and he doesn’t know how he’s going to come down from it.

Then there is another squeal and crunch of metal and someone yells:

“Oi! What sort of idiot left their bloody door open in the street?!”

Aziraphale pulls back and Crowley, annoyed, turns and sees the rather large car that has taken off the door of the Bentley and the snarling man beside it, his own fender dented.

“I hope you’re prepared to pay for this!” the man growls.

“Now really it was an accident I’m sure,” says Aziraphale.

“Shut your gob, you great poofter! No one was talking to you!”

“Sod off,” Crowley says, snapping his fingers and taking the mans’ wheels off just to be capricious.

“Now there’s no call for that,” Aziraphale says, snapping them back on again. And then at the man’s bewildered stare, clicks his tongue and waves a hand; repairing the Bentley’s door and probably wiping the man’s memory in the same moment.

“You’d better get out of the road, sir!” he calls cheerfully. “Your wife is expecting you.”

“Oh,” the man says, scratching the top of his bald head. “Right.”

“Don’t tell me he deserved that,” Crowley says. “At least you could have left him with a flat.”

“Yes, well, I’m sure his wife prefers him home rather than stranded here,” Aziraphale says, straightening his vest with a tug. “And it looks like your friends have gone.”

“Yeah.” Wait. “I mean what friends? I mean…bugger.”

He glares at Aziraphale who is beaming him a look of angelic innocence and Crowley can’t seem to remember to never trust him completely.

“Thank you for the wonderful night, Crowley,” he says.

“Don’t mention it,” Crowley says, not as a welcome but more as a plea. Not that the angel will, he knows, but it’s better to remind him just in case. He watches, hands in pockets as Aziraphale goes to the door of his shop and opens it. Bout time for him to leave then, he supposes. And maybe not come back for a couple of years or so; just to keep certain people from looking too hard.

“Oh, and Crowley?” says Aziraphale when he’s just reached his door.

“Yeah?”

“It was rather more than just a kiss.” And with a wink, the angel disappears into his shop.

That complete bastard, Crowley thinks, both amused an annoyed and impressed all at once. He can’t even tell if Aziraphale was talking about tonight or the night with the Kolokythoanthoi man. What’s worse, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever be sure and that’s going to drive him around the bend whenever he thinks about it.

A car honks angrily at him and Crowley waves away the man’s horn rather than his brakes, out of deference to the angel, and gets in the Bentley. He pulls out, running over all the porn mags the fleeing man dropped into the street and heads out. After a moment he puts in his newish CD of Velvet Underground.

“Cannnn’t,” Freddy Mercury croons. “Anybodyyyy. Find mee. Somebody to…”

“Sod off,” Crowley says, not quite covering the next line of that song. But then licks his still burning lip as he hangs a sharp right and lets the radio play.

 


End file.
